


Like A Fine Wine

by LittleDarkling



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDarkling/pseuds/LittleDarkling
Summary: This was not in Coulson’s job description.





	Like A Fine Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters. This is a work of fan love. No profit is made; no infringement is intended.
> 
> A/N: This has been sitting on my computer for ages. I don’t even remember when I wrote it.

It is important to remember that Phil Coulson didn’t always wear a suit and tie. People tend to make assumptions. They see the suit, the polished shoes and they assume. They assume he’s a bureaucrat, just another guy who spends his life behind a desk, pushing papers around. It is a façade that Phil has carefully cultivated over the years. Being underestimated does have a certain strategic value.

You see, before he wore a suit, Phil wore the uniform of the US Marine Corps and before he was an agent of a SHIELD, he was an operator. That was how he met Nick Fury. What he had thought to be an accidental encounter in the midst of a counterterrorism operation in the shadow of Mount Shkhara, turned out to be a job interview. They’d been hunkered down in heavy snow, taking fire from a rebel faction when Fury had offered him a position in SHIELD.

Phil hadn’t even needed time to consider.

It’s been almost ten years. His time with the Special Forces is the stuff of legend amongst the recruits. There is not an agent in SHIELD, not an Avenger or super-villain who can deny that Phil is a force, that he is a man to be reckoned with.

He is a badass agent of SHIELD.

Except, lately he isn’t feeling much like a badass agent of anything. Lately, he is feeling more like a middle-aged man trying to manage an asylum for teenagers (which is essentially what public high school is, in Phil’s opinion) and that’s not counting the five misfits that Fury has charged him with. Phil is starting to think he must have been very bad—

“Coulson! Check it out! I can make a slime angel!” Parker calls.

_Very bad,_ in a past life. It’s the only way he can possibly explain what he’s done to deserve this. Really, these brats cannot be Mankind’s hope for the future. It’s not that he doesn’t see the potential his team has. These kids could have done anything with their individual powers and skills, but even at this age, they have chosen a path that will mean personal sacrifice for the greater good. Someday, they will be legends in their own right.

Unfortunately, they have to grow up first and Phil’s concerned they may not live long enough to graduate. They may be superheroes; they may even be future Avengers, but right now they are loud, impulsive, hormonal, insubordinate miscreants. Pepper would say they’re just teenagers; Phil maintains they are hell-spawn brought into existence solely to screw up his life.

Parker is courageous and he means well, but he’s a reckless goofball on the best of days. Alexander’s ego comes with its own post code. Cage’s head is harder than his skin. As far as Rand’s whole Zen trip goes…well, Phil is still not convinced that isn’t pharmacologically-inspired. And Ayala, who the hell know what’s going on in her head? If dealing with Natasha has taught him anything, it’s that he hasn’t gained much wisdom about women since he was ten years old and his next door neighbor, Julie Anne, punched him in the face for pulling her ponytail (honestly, he’d meant it as a sign of affection).

Today’s misadventure involved a confrontation with a giant intergalactic weevil—there is a description Phil never thought he’d use—and resulted in the school being blanketed in slime. Just to be clear, this was not the desired outcome. This mess is the aftermath of Parker, Alexander and Cage turning containment into a competition to see who could take out the weevil first. Ayala had swiped that particular honor out from under them, with Rand backing her play.

Phil resists the urge to pinch himself in the hopes he’ll wake up back in his office at SHIELD with a cup of black coffee (not the diluted, hazelnut-flavored swill in the teacher’s lounge) and a certain blond archer perched on the edge of his desk.

“Parker, stop rolling around in the slime! Alexander, don’t even think about hurling that slime-ball! Cage, stop encouraging them! Oh, for the love of—Rand, stop meditating and do some work!” Rand is sitting cross-legged on the pavement, eyes closed and head tilted up to the sky.

“Ayala…!” She looks away from where she is diligently cleaning slime from the wall. Phil shakes his head.

“Never mind.” He turns his attention back to the boys. “I expect my school spotless before you all leave,” he states.

“Coulson, are you mad?” Parker asks, rolling over and standing up. There’s slime in his hair, dripping neon green globs onto his shoulder. “You look mad.” The agent grinds his teeth, hands curling into fists as he takes a deep breath and tries to find his calm. _Count to ten._

“Man, that vein in your forehead’s like, pulsating,” Cage observes. _Maybe count to fifty._

“Inner peace begins with—” Rand begins. Fine. _The hell with calm._

“Rand!” Phil snaps, pointing a long finger at the blond boy. “One more word from you, and I will have you drug-tested.” Danny looks affronted, but shuts his mouth. Phil grabs the mop from the janitor—the poor man has been staring at school, slack-jawed, for the last ten minutes—and slaps it against Parker’s chest. “Get started.”

If he’s being honest, the insubordinate idiocy he could deal with. These are relatively minor disasters compared to some of the things that Clint and Natasha got up to. Try explaining to a seventeen-year-old assassin why killing is not an appropriate response to _everything_ that pisses you off…including Clint swiping the last cupcake from the dessert table in the cafeteria. After dealing with teenage assassins, super-spies and hyperactive archers, this gig should be easy. But Phil’s lack of experience with normal (well, that being a relative term) teenagers, is proving to be to his detriment.

It’s not as if he didn’t prepare; Phil has never taken up any mission without being fully prepared. He did his research and he went into this with what he thought was appropriate intelligence. He is not a man unfamiliar with undercover work; he has led multiple covert missions in hostile territory and he never had trouble blending in with a local populace. Until now. Phil has started to compare this assignment to being stranded on some strange planet where he does not speak the language and has no frame of reference. He cannot relate to these kids, and they look at him as if he is as alien to them as they are to him. Take, for example, last Friday, when one of the juniors was sent to his office because the fool came up with the ingenious idea of trapping a feral cat and letting it loose in shop class. When asked why, the boy had responded that he wanted to see what Mister Gregory would do.

What Mister Gregory had done was run around the classroom swinging a broom like a drunken golfer. The class apparently found the situation hilarious, so not one of them had helped corral the damn cat. The kid had gone on to explain he had posted a video clip of it because he was trying to see if this might evolve into his own internet prank show. He had even pulled out his phone and showed it to Phil, proudly pointing out the number of hits, which was well into the hundreds by that time.

Now, the only question Phil could think to ask this boy, the only thing that would possibly explain such idiotic reasoning, was “Did someone drop you on your head when you were younger?” He didn’t ask, because he was aware that would have been inappropriate. That did not, however, make the question any less valid.

This is the kind of foolishness he has been dealing with since he got this assignment. Things were simpler when he was a teenager. For starters, no ironically named ‘smart phones’ (from what Phil has seen, smart phones have turned the population into drooling, dependent zombies). He has lost count of the number of damn phones he’s confiscated in the last month alone. If he could, he would have them banned from his school.

If they’re not talking or checking their social media accounts with the constancy of junkies needing a fix, they’re texting. Phil really hates texting. Yesterday, he watched a girl walk herself into a door, a water fountain and a fire extinguisher because she couldn’t be bothered to look up from her phone. And this was one of the school’s honor students.

The last time he had complained about this, Stark, being the obnoxious shit he is, had asked if Phil missed the Pony Express. To think on it now, there has never been a time he has actually liked Tony Stark. The frustrating part is that he is not out of touch with technology. It’s the opposite. Phil is well-versed in modern military and law enforcement technology. But the difference is that he understands that technology. It exists for a reason, serves a specific purpose.

Civilian technology, on the other hand, has become so fused with the mindless idiocy of pop culture that it has started to mutate into an illogical construct of its own. On this point Stark would likely argue that technology that connects the entire world is beneficial to all humanity. Phil still cannot say the good necessarily outweighs the ludicrous.

And none of this technology should be put it into the hands of anyone under the age of twenty—or maybe thirty.

The tech is only part of the problem. There’s also the issue of communication.

Phil doesn’t understand half the crap that comes out the kids’ mouths. It’s not even the slang. He was a teenager once; he comprehends slang. It’s the abbreviations that confound him. The students speak in text abbreviations. They write entire papers using the same abbreviations. Beatrice humiliates Benedict in front of the prince. LOL. What in the hell does ‘LOL’ mean?! Is this to be the evolution of their language? Asinine abbreviations, appalling spelling and reprehensible grammatical errors?

Phil has tried to remind them that the English language possesses an incredible and complex vocabulary and when speaking or writing, one does not use absurd abbreviations. He tries, and for his effort the students look at him, at best, with disdain. At worst, they look at him with sympathy, as though he is an old man trapped in a time that no one remembers. They look at him the way Stark looks at Steve whenever the good captain gets frustrated with modern technology.

Phil has faced terrorists and demons, super-villains, maniacal gods and aliens hell-bent on Earth’s enslavement or destruction. This is the first time he has ever felt that he might be in over his head.

He leaves the brats to clean up his slime-covered school and returns to the Helicarrier. Being around students, teachers and parents has made Phil realize how very little he misses civilian life. SHIELD, like the military, is structure and order. The civilian world is far too chaotic. Pepper has more than once questioned why he chose to stay with SHIELD after what happened in New York. It is a good question, but the truth is, he has no idea what else he would do. This is where he belongs.

There are certain things Phil is just comfortable with. Five AM drills and pre-dawn runs across rock-hewn terrain. The familiar cling and weight of his assault gear, vest, balaclava and ammunition pouch. The scent of gunpowder, the rough texture of a grip in his hands, the curve of a trigger against his finger, the weight of a weapon on his hip.

He misses his gun, if he’s being honest; even his gait feels off without it. While Phil is not dependent on his weapon as a primary defense, as it can fail or be lost, after so many years he’s unused to being without it. Now, the feel of it brushing his arm as he walks, the metallic shine of the Helicarrier’s interior and the distant echo of Hill training recruits, makes the knot in his chest loosen, though his mood remains foul enough that no one dares approach him and every agent he passes keeps their distance. He trudges through the halls, sights set on the break room and a pot of strong black coffee.

The small kitchenette that adjoins the Helicarrier’s break room is empty except for Clint and Fury. That combination is enough to keep all others, save Hill, Natasha and Phil, from even daring to cross the threshold. The scent of the black coffee, bitter and caustic, permeates the air, making him feel weak-kneed. Clint is perched on the counter, long legs swinging back and forth idly while Fury stands in front of the sink, a yogurt cup in his hand. They both look up as Phil enters. Fury lifts his good eyebrow as he takes in the state of his senior agent.

“Coulson, you looked wrecked, man,” Clint says, characteristically tactless in his observation. Phil mutters an obscenity, taking the coffee the archer holds out for him.

“The Super-Whelps?” the younger man guesses.

“Yes,” Phil replies tersely.

“This assignment proving too much for you, Agent Coulson?” Fury rumbles, mouth tugging up at the corner in a sharp grin. It’s a vaguely disturbing expression on a man he rarely sees smile…well, not without some manner of weaponry in his hands or his foot on someone’s throat.

“No, sir,” Phil grinds out quietly. Fury seems on the verge saying something else, when Hill’s voice suddenly cuts through the overhead speakers, requesting his presence in the training room. The director tosses the empty yogurt container in the trash and departs, leaving Clint and Phil alone. Phil takes the position the director has vacated, leaning back heavily, the edge of the counter biting into his lower back.

Clint slides off his perch, graceful as always. He’s dressed in his usual fitted black and purple field gear. And if Phil eyes linger over the lean, muscular form, well, he has earned the indulgence. He can feel the archer’s gaze as he drinks his coffee and astutely avoids it, knowing if he looks into those bright blue eyes now, he won’t be able to hide a damn thing. Clint is disturbingly adept at reading him and while Phil knows the weariness and frustration are plain on his face, he does not need Clint seeing any deeper to the root of his discontent.

“What’s bothering you?” Clint asks after a few moments tick by in silence. “Can’t be the kids’ shenanigans. I like to think I was a much greater menace when you first recruited me.”

“You’re still a menace,” the older man mutters automatically.

“But I’m your menace.” Clint’s response is predictable, as is the demure batting of his eyelashes. Phil grunts, looking away so Clint won’t see the small smile that touches his lips.

“What’s going on, boss?” the archer presses gently. Phil scrubs a hand through his short hair. He’s not sure he wants to have this conversation and he could tell Clint to leave it alone, but that’s never worked. The archer will pester and wheedle until he gets an answer. More so, since the events in New York. Clint is determined to remind Phil that no matter what happens, he is never alone.

“I feel old,” he says finally. Damn, admitting that isn’t making him feel any better.

“Old?” Clint asks, brow knitting in confusion.

“Yes, Barton. Old.” He sighs and takes a great gulp of coffee. Phil is not a vain man. He has never been one to stare in the mirror every morning searching for gray hairs, fretting over lines of age on his face. He doesn’t worry about his muscles not being as defined as they were when he was twenty and he doesn’t care worth a damn whether the pretty college girl at the coffee shop gives him a second glance. Vanity is for children and idle celebrities, not grown men. It is not vanity, but there is something about this assignment that is making him feel, for the first time, that he may be getting too old for the game. He looks at the archer, who is watching him expectantly.

“Do you know what One Direction is?” he asks finally. Clint frowns, at what seems like a complete non-sequitur.

“It’s…it’s a band,” he answers slowly, as though he thinks it might be a trick question. The older man growls in frustration.

“How do you even know that?” he demands, because Clint doesn’t listen to anything that isn’t Japanese heavy metal. Phil knows this because he or Natasha has thrown many a CD/record/MP3 player out the window at some unholy hour of the morning after an op, when Clint is hopped up on adrenaline and caffeine and forgets not everyone considers loud, abrasive vocals and screeching guitars to be ‘cool down’ music. The younger man shrugs.

“Agent Ross. Her girls are _huge_ fans.” His brow furrows and he tilts his head, looking briefly like his namesake. “Why are you asking?”

“I thought it was a phone company,” Phil mutters, massaging his temple. Ok, admittedly, that doesn’t make a lot of sense, now that he thinks about it, but the first time he heard the name, he _did_ think it was a phone company. Clint’s mouth twitches in that way it does when he’s trying to hide a smile.

“That’s why you feel old?” he asks.

“No! It’s everything! It’s these kids today…” Phil groans loudly as soon as the words have left his lips and drops his head. “My grandfather used that phrase. My _grandfather!_ I have become my grandfather.” When he looks up, he sees that Clint has abandoned all pretense of hiding his amusement and is simply grinning, corners of his mouth dimpled and eyes shining. Phil scowls at him. “You find this funny?”

“Little bit, yeah.” At the older man’s dark look, Clint places his mug back on the counter with a quiet clink and boldly moves into Phil’s space. “C’mon, boss. This is just cabin fever. You’re stuck behind a desk all day and not counting those times when one of your Baby ‘Vengers gets into something, you don’t get to go out and play.” He steps closer, hands resting on the counter, on either side of the older man’s hips, boxing him in. “If Fury hadn’t given you this gig, you’d still be running with Tasha and me.”

“But I’m not!” Phil snaps, exasperated. “I’m surrounded by these teenagers who don’t listen and sound like they’re speaking a foreign language every time they open their little cesspool mouths!” He sighs, shaking his head and looks at the archer helplessly. “I don’t even know when I got old. I…when did that happen?” The last word has barely left his lips when suddenly Clint’s body is pressing him back against the counter and Clint’s lips are hot and insistent against his own.

Phil’s body reacts before his mind has even caught up, hands wrapping around the archer’s lean hips, tugging the younger man close, instinctively exerting dominance. Clint melts into it, tilting his head to give Phil his throat. The other agent hums his approval and takes what is offered, teeth scrapping the smooth line of his archer’s jaw and slipping lower to close, gently, over his jugular. Clint makes a soft, contented sound, fingers tangling in the fabric of Phil’s jacket.

“Every agent out there wants to be like you,” he murmurs, the words vibrating against Phil’s lips. “You are a legend, the man Nick Fury personally selected for SHIELD. The man who took down the Black Widow. A man even the gods can’t kill.” Phil raises his head to look at his archer and Clint smiles, soft and genuine. It is a smile that he keeps only for Phil and the older agent has come to covet that smile, would kill for it.

“An old man couldn’t inspire that kind of respect from every recruit that comes through the doors.” Clint’s lips brush the curve of his jaw. “And an old man sure as hell couldn’t keep me in check,” he breathes, tongue flicking against the corner of Coulson’s mouth. He presses a stinging kiss, all teeth, to the older man’s throat. “Make.” Another to his jaw. “Me.” Coulson’s eyes flutter closed as Clint’s lips brush his ear. “Obey.” The last word is wrapped in an obscene moan and Phil’s hips twitch remembering the last time he had drawn such a wanton sound from his archer. Clint has a way with words. Phil clears his throat, gently drawing back to rest his forehead against the younger man’s.

“You’ve made your point, little bird,” he murmurs. He feels the archer’s warm, chapped lips tug into a smile. “But let’s not start something we can’t finish right now.”

“Who says we can’t?” Clint’s fingers tug gently at his belt buckle and Phil catches his hands, sliding his fingers through the younger agent’s. His thumb rubs across familiar scars and calluses.

“Restraint, Barton.” Clint presses another soft kiss to his lips and smiles.

“Yes, sir.” He starts to moves back, but Phil holds him, one hand wrapped around Clint’s hip. There’s a twitchy smirk playing across the archer’s reddened lips.

“Feeling better, boss?” he asks. Phil swallows, able to taste coffee and chocolate and Clint.

“Yes, actually. Thank you.” The younger agent winks.

“Anytime.” He strokes the soft skin of Clint’s hip, breathing in the scent of his archer.

“Just promise me something,” he says quietly. “Depends on what.” Clint’s soft, coffee-scented breath ruffles his hair, strokes across his cheek. “Don’t ever get pregnant.”

The archer laughs softly, a warm, brilliant vibration that passes from his body into Phil’s.

“I’ll do my best.” The comm clipped on Phil’s belt buzzes. The agent sighs.

“What. Is it. Parker?”

“Coulson, this sucks,” the boy announces, sounding so petulant that Clint can’t restrain a grin. “Doesn’t SHIELD have like some super-duper slime cleaning kit or something?”

“Keep whining, Parker, and you’re going to be cleaning the gym floor every day for the rest of the year,” he replies and cuts off the call. “Barton.” He curls a hand around the younger man’s wrist, brushes his thumb lightly over the pulse point. “Dinner tonight.” Clint’s tongue slips out to wet his pink, abused lips.

“Sounds good.” Phil suspects they probably won’t make it to the restaurant, but that’s ok. He smiles, watching his archer walk away.

Yeah, ok, so he’s not twenty anymore and the first time he heard the word ‘hashtag’ he thought it was a breakfast food. So, what? He gets Clint Barton.

Oh, yeah, and he’s a badass agent of SHIELD.

*

“Do you know what One Direction is?” Phil asks Steve later, while Natasha trains with Clint and Sam.

“A road sign,” Steve answers without hesitation.

At least Phil is in good company.

End


End file.
